Home Sweet Home

Home….the four letter word stuffed with so much meaning it looks like an ‘after’ photo in one of those flex trash bag commercials. It can be as simple as a shelter, as complex as love. It can warm the cockles of your heart (wherever cockles might be located; beside the left ventricle, perhaps?) or chill you to the marrow. 

When I was a child, home leaned more to the cold bones side of things. It wasn’t usually a safe haven, a place of warm fuzzies. Oh, there were moments, but home was found in the branches of the willow tree, or in the hollow behind a big lichen-speckled rock, hidden from view by shrubs. Always there was a book involved, and my refuge was in those pages. Every year my family loaded up the car: parents, three kids, camping gear, luggage, and set out at 2 am to head for some mid-Atlantic beach. It was a migration my parents—and I—lived for, landing somewhere between Ocean City, MD and Topsail, NC and we’d settle in for the week. I anxiously awaited the moment we hit the sand and I made my way to the water’s edge, standing juuuusst out of reach of the tide, imagining that with each wave that hit the sand the Sea was rising up to greet me; that first moment chilly, foamy water hit my toes I was being greeted, welcomed…..welcomed home. I would dip a finger into the water & taste it, a sacramental wine that was more communion than anything I’d felt at church. In moments I’d be up to my waist, then diving under, floating on my back, riding the waves to shore and heading back out again, a mermaid restored to the sea from whence she came. Sure, there were rough moments when She got a tad rough, and I felt like a cigarette butt being ground into the sand, but mostly I felt cradled, safe, at peace and joined, blood to salt water, like I belonged there above all other places. I always, always intended one day to live in sight, sound, smell….soul….of the ocean. As an adult, responsibilities conspired to keep me from the sea. There was a day here & there, but an awkwardness prevailed; it didn’t feel quite right to abandon the family to spend hours in the water, turning into a happy prune. Still more years later, I fell in love with the place I’d always lived, this river-kissed valley punctuated by assorted mountains.

I came to know sprawling farms, sunset mountains & dappled woods as my shelter, my place of peace. I’ve mentioned in other posts how, during the year spent living in Baltimore, I longed for the Hudson Valley, how we came off the Thruway on a house-hunting trip, came around a bend in the road, and suddenly tears poured down my cheeks as the snow-draped Catskills came into view, because I had so missed this place. Fast forward to this past week. Linda & I took our first vacation in four years, and went camping on Cape Cod. 

The weather was good, the Moon was full our second night there, we laughed long and hard at Kate Clinton & Karen Williams, ate fish and roasted marshmallows, snuggled under blankets and listened to fog dripping off the trees onto our tent. 

We bought spices, herbs and more at the Atlantic Spice Company, watched the sun set over the salt marsh, 

meandered Fall-bedecked New England roads. And on Saturday, we finally made our way to Herring Cove Beach. In season, this is Provincetown’s most popular beach according to the brochures, but on this cool, sunny late October day, we saw maybe two dozen people. It was mostly just us, sun, sky, breeze, sand, cormorants, a seal…and the sea. As we strolled at the water’s edge, I dipped a finger in the water and touched it to my tongue. The briny cool was as familiar as if my last visit was days ago, not years. 

But later, sitting in the sand with Linda, I realized it no longer felt like home. It was lovely and peaceful, but like visiting….a friend’s home, not mine. I looked at my beloved, wind-blown and lost in thought, her mind spinning with inspiration and plans. We’ve been together 9 years now….we’ve dreamed, planted, painted, learned, worked, laughed, cried, shared dogs, cats, chickens, bees (okay, we don’t actually share the bees!), planned, imagined, risked, sowed, reaped….together. It doesn’t matter whether we’re snuggled in a moon-bathed tent or sweating in the garden, caressed by a blanket of fog on the piece of mountain-view property we’re trying—hoping-- to buy or smushed on the couch with Yeti, Lola, Pip & Elf—one happy, eclectic pack. Home is no longer a place; it’s a state of being, a state of grace. Home is with…no, home is this womon. She is as simple as shelter, as complex as love, and the only home I’ll ever want.

She's Here!

And She's most welcome: Fall...Autumnal Equinox...that time when changes fly through as quickly as flocks of Canada Geese...

Local apples are becoming sauce in the crockpot, sweetened with local maple syrup. Yesterday's root veggies, gathered from assorted local farms, are about to start roasting in the oven to be enjoyed through the week. Linda is up working with her bees,  I have wool calling my name, the wind is blowing liquid gold light through the already-turning leaves. 

Blessed Fall to all whose hearts sing and souls dance this time of year!

Cuspin' It Up

I don't know about you, but for weeks it's felt like I'm balancing on a cobweb thin line, teetering and slipping, one foot landing on this side, the other foot landing on that side....back & forth, over & under. Everything feels like it's living on the cusp, not quite here or there, then or now. Some of it is the seasonal seesaw; in one morning we picked Concord grapes to make jam

and bought a half bushel of San Marzano tomatoes to make batches of pomodoro sauce to freeze, a culinary preservation of two seasons in one day.

It's a strange time of year, one day crazy hot (a week ago we had a heat index of 104), two days later we're longing for a fire in the pellet stove. The hummingbirds are more prolific than they were all Summer, and the chickens are calling it a day before 7:00. I'm antsy for Fall to begin, but those cuspy weeks between late August and the first day of Autumn are my busiest, most stressful at work, leaving me too exhausted to enjoy the aforementioned chilly evenings. I was at work before the sun was fully up, and arrived home after it had settled in for the night. Incidentally, that's why I've been absent from the Land of Bloggers; I've been thinking of so many of you but have scarcely been on the computer for anything but work in weeks. This evening I finally had time to start meandering through your worlds again, trying to catch up with all I had missed.

The purple asters and goldenrod have created a symphony of color, the opening act for the foliage fireworks to come, but some tree disease has pre-empted the maples' show; all over our part of the Hudson Valley the maples are spotted and wilting, leaves falling with every breeze, not with the grace of final bows but with a dread finality of lingering illness. 

I'm grateful to be returning to hearth and home at a more reasonable time, to reacquaint myself with the menagerie (Linda is currently fostering two litters, several weeks apart in age), but antsy to make our escape to Cape Cod in 4 weeks. This past weekend we wandered to a neighboring county and began daydreaming of a life spent waking up to this view:

I'm restless, yet tired, longing to be out in the crisp days and curled up near the fire with wool and tea. There's work to be done, garlic, kale, snakeroot & a spice bush to plant, soups to cook and freeze, apple & pumpkin butter to be made and preserved, but I'm aching for the hibernation of the seasons to come, wanting to just sit somewhere and allow body, soul and mind to knit themselves together again.

I want it all, kids....and I'm not even sure what all is.  Are any of you feeling this same betwixt and between tug these days?

Never Enough

Time, that is.  A staffing issue at work as September marches relentlessly closer and we get busier daily, and days lost to feeling crummy (in part because of the prescribed antibiotics which are almost worse than the illness!) have left me wishing I'd planted at least one bed of seconds this Spring. Why, imagine if I could be out there right now pinching off a few minutes here, digging up an hour there! How awesome would that be???? 

When time gets short, writing is the first thing to fall by the wayside. I come home too tired to do anything but stare into space and hug the critters. But having made a commitment to the Sagewoman blog channel, I snuck a little time away from chores to do a post. And now I'm going to cheat a bit, and rather than write new content today for this blog, I'm going to do a cross post. I know many of you aren't of the Pagan persuasion, but I like to think this post below has something to offer, even if you change Goddess to God, Her to Him.

And I promise to do an original Confessions post later this week! Wishing you a gentle week...

A Different Harvest

We're researchers, Linda and I. We don't just grab a bunch of seeds, stick 'em in the ground and wait. No...we think it to death, researching heirlooms, tracking down companies with organic seeds, amending our soil, measuring rainfall. We were the same way with getting chickens. I knew what breeds I wanted because I spent hours comparing the merit of Australorps versus Orpingtons. We built the coop to ensure the appropriate roosting space, and spent hours discussing placement of the nest boxes versus the roost. I have this idea I need to do things perfectly. A mistake at work costs me lost sleep and spiking blood pressure. A botched dinner prompts numerous apologies to Linda (who honestly couldn't care less), and when my sons run into life's walls, I just assume it was a flaw in my parenting that is causing them anguish. As for my writing skills, well, no one is a more brutal critic than I. Yeah, bring on that cat o' nine tails and hair shirt!

So when all that research is done, when we've planted things just so, in perfect organic soil, with organic fertilizer, watered exactly as we should, provided just the right sunshine, it's kind of a rude slap when the harvest is...well, nada. This year forty heirloom tomato plants yielded a grand total of a dozen cracked and blemished tomatoes. Our peas barely produced. Heck, even my kale tanked!  Seriously-who can't grow kale? The gardening year started with such promise, and is winding down with anything but a fireworks display of produce. 

But we did have a harvest. You know what grew this year? The fruits and flowers we didn't touch. As I write this, I'm snacking on sweet, juicy grapes, that aside from a March pruning, never received a moment of care. We never even got around to covering them to keep away Japanese beetles. In the freezer, there's a tray jam-packed with blueberries from the bushes we haven't fertilized or pruned. The garlic hanging to cure above the living room window was planted last Fall, covered with straw, and untouched (except for harvesting their scapes) until two weeks ago. Coneflowers, black-eyed susans and morning glories fill the yard with color, but we didn't plant them this year or last. We just let them be.

And so it can--and sometimes should--be in our walk with Goddess. Many of us have created or shared in elaborate rituals; even when solitary, we've smudged, cast the circle, invoked the elements, tossed in more than a few thees & thys. We've chosen the right colors and written poetry, researched which aspect of Her to call upon. Perhaps the ensuing ritual was profound and mystical, took us to a deeper place with Her and ourselves. and that's good. But it's so easy to over think, to strive for the perfect prayer, perfect ritual; it's easy to lose sight of what we seek because we're lost in the planning. 

There's a peace that comes with stepping outside with your coffee first thing in the morning and raising it in toast to the One that gave us that morning. There's a simplicity and contentment that comes from taking a walk in the woods and just having a conversation with Her. The whispered thank you breathing from our lips as we fall asleep can be the perfect prayer. The mundane can become the sacred with our intent; as we put our gardens to bed and preserve our harvests for the Winter to come, we can ask Goddess what in ourselves, in our lives, can be preserved or put to rest. We can wash the dishes or organize our desks while singing our favorite Goddess chants. I'm blessed with a short commute to a less than ideal job, and often use that morning drive to say a prayer and ask a blessing for the day (sometimes, it's simply Goddess, give me strength !). 

Don't let your mind shout over your heart and soul. Choose one small act to bring Her into your here and now without perfect words or the right incense blend. Just one. Maybe tonight, when you lock the doors before bed, whisper a hello to the waxing Moon and ask Her to shine on and protect your hearth and home. Take just one moment to see and feel Her with no preparation. I promise, you'll reap far more than you've sown!

Harvesting

Thursday was Lughnasadh for those of us who call ourselves pagan. It's a holy day in honor of Lugh, an ancient Celtic god often represented by light and a powerful sun. My path is Goddess-centric, and so I acknowledge the day as the first of the three harvest festivals (the second is the Fall Equinox, the third, Samhain--Halloween). The very first seasonal ritual I consciously observed as spiritual practice was Lughnasadh, about 17 years ago. I remember rising at dawn so I could go into the park across the street from us before the neighborhood awoke, and there I made offerings of corn muffins, gave thanks, and rejoiced at the turning of the Wheel. This year I honored the day in part by slow-roasting and then freezing tomatoes from a local farm, giving thanks for the bounty that will sweeten Winter evenings. 

But I don't like alot of things about Summer; it's a season that leaves me squirming in discomfort, languishing in heat and humidity. I'm deeply grateful for the bounty of this time of year; I know this morning the farm market will yield apricots and plums, tomatoes and zucchini, herbs and corn. And I love that the place I work is closed on Fridays most of the Summer. Friday mornings on the porch, drinking coffee while soaking in the glory of the morning glories and the songs of the birds are a blessing I don't take for granted. I'm kind of backwards; this is my hibernation time, the time when I have little choice but to dream and plan. I come awake as the days grow shorter and the nights cooler, when pumpkins and apples replace tomatoes as farm market staples. But still, there is a harvest here in our corner of the world....

We gathered our first garlic today!  We've never grown it before, and got 28 heads for 72 cloves planted, but there it is, hung in a never-gets-direct-sun north-facing living room window, with a window fan below, our very first homegrown garlic! We have several notes of things to do better in the future (remove the Winter straw mulch and fertilize come Spring among them), but for a few months, we'll savor this very first garlic. 

Garlic is a fascinating thing; for those who haven't grown it, you plant individual cloves. About nine months later (!), after it has lived in the dark, put out tall green shoots into the world, and those shoots have danced in Summer breezes and then died back, you get big heads of the stuff, and you plant individual cloves from the best of those heads....if you get it right, you sow what you reap and then sow the best of that harvest. Isn't that a great metaphor for spiritual growth?  

What are you harvesting this month as Summer begins her final songs?

Furry Friday

Linda's been bringing home kittens (and a cat) this Summer for fostering. The last batch was a mom and five babies, left abandoned in an apartment after the owners moved out. Mom stayed with us about a week, the babies another two weeks, and I'm sorry to say we never took photos. They were a wonderful bunch, too cute and playful. 

They left us a week and a half ago or so....and today she's brought home a batch of 3 week olds, surrendered with no mom. They should be brief visitors, just a couple of weeks, but it's a beautiful litter of four. 

There's a very very fuzzy black one as well, but so far no good photos. We've named the orange one Bellini (even though neither of us drinks), but it may be a few days before the others get their own call signs.

Gorgeous weather, dry and more...appropriately warm. Wishing you an abundantly beautiful weekend...go hug something furry!

The Odd World of Blogging

Blogging is kind of weird. For me--and many like me--it's both writing exercise and semi-journal. I began this one just before the end of 2009, I think in large part to make me write, somewhere, something. Two years later, I bid you all a fond farewell, having decided it was keeping me from Serious Writing, giving me a false sense of written accomplishment, and announced the end of Confessions of a Would-Be Mountain Womon. That lasted a whole whopping month. I wasn't writing any more elsewhere, and I missed the act of electronic journaling, of sharing my thoughts, fears, joys with others. And I especially missed the comments, the interactions with you.

I also love reading your blogs. We share some assorted similiarities, and some big differences. Not one of us has the same life as the other, although one or the other travels the same spiritual path, or is a would-be homesteader as well (or provides an example to emulate), or knows what it is to feel less one's self without wool in some form nearby, or feels more complete when writing. We may not know each other, but perhaps we've both watched our children grow up and leave. Maybe we've both begun new lives unrecognizeable from what they were before. I like to think we bond with certain bloggers on some level, perhaps not all, but certain ones whose journeys resonate with something in us, whose written postcards awaken memories or inspiration.

But even as we bridge the distance between us with words and thought, the realities of physical distance and relative anonymity are a gulf we sometimes never manage to leap. Awhile back, the blog My Farmhouse Kitchen abruptly fell silent. One day there were posts, and then....not. It was months later that another blogger posted the heartbreaking news that the My Farmhouse Kitchen's writer had fought valiantly but lost a battle with cancer. Her blog, and more so the glimpses of her spirit in that blog, are missed.

The blogosphere seems a delicate web to me, made with silken threads that can withstand the darkest night's rain and glisten in the rising sun, but can be torn to shreds with a wave of the hand.

And so, perhaps we make friends with some fellow bloggers as our souls recognize kindred spirits, reaching out past the pages of cyberspace. And for the rest, well...we celebrate their presence, honor their hearts spilled out on our computer screens, and mourn when they disappear, grateful for the time together.